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Friday, 23 August 2013

The Krud Diaries: Day 16

Liebe Mich,
                   Today I visited a Corangamite mine.
This may come as a shock to you, diary, but I don’t actually know what Corangamite is.
I must assume it is a vital component in the production of cars because the mine is very close to Geelong where, I am led to believe, cars are produced.
My faithful minion-in-chief invited workers from the nearby car plant to attend my morning rally.
It was fortunate indeed that the workers did not have to attend work – apparently the factory owner, a Mr Ford, has decreed that several days a week will be ‘Work Free’ days.
I am told he has done this in honour of my excellent work in filling his coffers with Ratfucker money.
In fact, I myself overheard some of the little people declaring “no work again today, thanks to Kev and that Bowen chucklehead”.
I spoke to Bruce about this. Bowen is a faithful lickspittle and will in time become a faithful functionary, but he is hardly worthy of sharing my limelight. If this Ford fellow’s workers are enjoying Work Free days the credit should go where it is due. 
To Kevin.
Have you noticed something else, diary? Of course you haven’t, you are merely a reflection of myself and therefore incapable of seeing beyond your ow … you are a journal.
I have embraced my wild side, diary, and thrown away my ties.
(Actually, She Who Controls The Money, has refused to pack my clothing for me since I was in Perth and therefore I have no ties left. When I asked why, she said “Maybe you should get Danii to do it” and flounced off to sign some more Government contracts.)
But, that is just between you and I, mein schönes.
The true story, which is to say, the story that will appear in the historical accounts of my glorious rei … prime ministership, is that it was a brilliant strategic move by my good self.
Those accounts will detail how I was watching my Austin Powers training videos when my superior powers of observation quickly deduced the source of his mojo.
No tie!
I call it my Austin Hefner look. It allows me to demonstrate that I am a happening dictator, diary. I am a cool cat that digs autocratic rule or, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer would say: machen Schergen Sprung ist meine Tasche, baby!
The Hefner allusion is self-explanatory, of course.
As I pointed out to the minion despatched to ‘persuade’ her to remove her foolish remarks, my sexual magnetism cannot be denied.
All are prey to it. We cannot hold hard feelings against them if they succumb to it. I have forgiven her.
Naturally, I have ordered that a PlayKrud Mansion be incorporated into the plans for the Fuhrer Complex that Parliament House will become.
My cravats and smoking jackets are on order. I have ordered an extra smoking jacket for Kev Ill Marcus so he and I can enjoy a stogey – as soon as that Cuban fool returns with a box of my good friend Fidel’s finest.
A foolish minion was overheard to opine that taking my tie off was almost as good an idea as giving J … Ju … That Woman glasses.
I dismissed him, of course. It pleases Kevin that he is now the copy boy in the PR division of the British Syphilis Appreciation Society.
KCHQ tried to create panic with silly stories about polls, but I crushed their negativity with the power of my speech to my adherents at the Corangamite mine works.
I am fighter! I shall not wear a tie and I will fight.! While my nemesis The Abbott cuts, cuts, cuts, I will fight, fight, fight!
I. Will. Punch. Kick. Campbell Newman. I. Will. Mr. Millionaire. Guy. Jobs. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cumball … Campbell. Newman. Nurses. Teachers!
Facts. Facts. Facts.
Aah, diary of mine. Who could fail to be moved by such rhetoric?
I also used my trump card phrase to inspire the little people.
Would you like to know what it is? In point of fact, diary, one would better be advised to ask “what they are”?
Hooters, diary. Hooters!
“The half-time hooter has just sounded, friends. And I will Fight. Fight. Fight for the second half. Campbell Newman. Hooter!”
Hhhmm, I must see how my new BFF Danii in Perth is. Best not to leave this in the hands of a minion, diary. I shall attend to it myself.
I also manoeuvred The Abbott into yet another fatal mistake.
As you know, I have chased him up hill and down dale with my masterly exposition on the evils of Big Tobacco. Today, he crumbled before my onslaught – clearly, the beaten cur is still licking his wounds after I tore him a new one on Wednesday night - by foolishly declaring that his party would no longer accept donations from Big Tobacco!
The fool doesn’t realise two things.
Firstly: Everybody knows that Cuban cigars are not made of tobacco, but of the supple thighs of nubile Cuban women.
And twicely, folk … And Twicely: While he has rejected the pittance Big Tobacco donates to him, my regim … my government makes nearly $6 billion in profit from excise on Big Tobacco!
I rounded out my day by tossing a few baubles and trinkets to the little people. I believe it was some sort of Cancer thing. As you know, diary, my dear mother has died seven time of nine different types of cancer, so it is an issue close to my heart. Campbell Newman. Cuts. Bone. Nurses. Teachers.
Oh, diary, I am so invigorated by my victory on Wednesday night.!
I am off to Sydney tomorrow, diary. I am very much looking forward to it – I will travel in a bigger aeroplane and have many more buttons and dials to twiddle.

Notes to self: Give more thought to promoting Bruce to Number Two. He will have to wear an eye-patch, but when self-respect is gone, what is an eye?; send minion to buy cat; follow up on progress on legislating the Korean kid’s and make-up artist’s sorry arses to PNG; commission new chapter for memoirs: Battle of the Bronco’s – My Victory.  

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